Dote (Dowry)

Norhan B. Kudarat

Maagang gumising si Fahad upang maligo dahil sa alas siyete ang kanyang pasok sa mataas na paaralan ng Dimataling sa Zamboanga del Sur. Makikita sa kanyang may biloy na mga pisngi ang saya at ngiting parang abot hanggang langit. Dali-dali siyang naligo na tila limang minuto lang at parang kidlat na nagbihis sa napaglumaang uniporme ng kanyang kuya dahil magkasingtangkad lang sila nito. Hindi na siya nag-almusal dahil alam niyang wala na naman silang ulam. Sabik siyang pumasok dahil makikita na naman niya ang crush ng campus na si Jameela. Si Jameela ay kaklase ni Fahad. Siya ang binansagang “Helen” ng kanilang campus at maging sa kanilang lugar dahil sa taglay nitong ganda na halos lahat ng mga kalalalakihan ay mapapatunganga at mabibighani. Matagal ng may lihim na pagtingin si Fahad kay Jameela ngunit hindi niya ito maligawan dahil sa haram sa isang Muslim ang magkaroon ng nobya o nobyo. Sa Islam kasi ay mahigpit na ipinagbabawal ang pagsasama ng dalawang magkaiba ang kasarian dahil maaari silang magkasala sa Allah o makagawa ng Zina o ang pagtatalik ng babae at lalaki na hindi pa kasal at dahil na rin sa payo ng ina nitong isang Ustaja o guro sa isang Arabic School na hindi naman gaano kalaki ang sinasahod.

Nang dumating siya sa paaralan ay dahan-dahang pumasok sa silid-aralan si Fahad na parang naka-slow motion sa isang pelikula habang nakatingin sa upuan ni Jameela na nakapwesto sa harapan na malapit sa pisara. Iniisip niya na kung nasa loob si Jameela ay kung paano niya ito kakausapin.

Pagkaraan ng ilang minuto ay dumating ang isang puti at bagong modelong “furtuner” na sasakyan. Huminto ito sa tapat ng kanilang paaralan. Pumarada ito malapit sa tapat ng kanilang klasrum. Sakay nito si Jameela. Unti-unting siyang bumaba sa sasakyan na para bang isang prinsesa na halos lahat ng mga mag-aaral ay nakatingin sa bawat hakbang niya at tila inihahatid papunta sa loob ng silid-aralan.

Bigla ding dumating ang kanilang tagapayo na masayang inanunsiyo na magkakaroon sila ng eleksyon ng mga opisyales ng kanilang section. Hanggang umabot sa puntong Muse at Prince Charming nalang ang pinagpipilian ng mga mag-aaral.

“Ngayon naman, mamimili na tayo ng ating magiging Muse,” masayang sabi ng kanilang guro.

Ma’am, I nominate Jameela Mangundato as our Muse!” sabi ng kaklase nitong sabik na sabik na maging Muse si Jameela.

“Ma’am, I close the nomination!” sigaw naman ng katabi nito sabay tili ng malakas habang hawak sa kanyang dibdib.

I second the motion ma’am,” dagdag ng isa pang kaklase nito na tila kinikilig ng sobra habang ginugulo naman ang sarili nitong buhok.

At naging Muse nila si Jameela sa kanilang seksiyon.

Okay class! Ngayon naman pipili tayo kung sino ang ating magiging Prince Charming,” sabi ng guro na tila nakatingin sa kaakit-akit na mga mata Fahad.

“Ma’am! Wala namang ibang gwapo dito kundi si Fahad lang!” sabi ng babaeng kaklase nila na kinikilig din sa pagsambit sa pangalan ni Fahad.

“Ma’am, i-appoint nalang natin si Fahad! Bagay kasi sila ni Jameela!” sigaw ng isa pang kaklase nila na kunwari’y hinimatay sa kilig.

Dahil doon ay napagdesisyunan ng klase na si Fahad ang magiging Prince Charming ng kanilang seksiyon. Sumang-ayon naman dito ang kanilang guro na tila kinilig din ng bahagya.

Sa mga sumunod na araw, naging magkaibigan sina Fahad at Jameela. Tinuring silang love team ng kanilang campus at kalaunan ay binansagan ng pangalang FaJam na kuha sa inisyal na pangalan ng dalawa- Fahad at Jameela. Araw-araw na masayang pumapasok sa paaralan si Fahad dahil sa ispirado itong makita si Jameela sa tuwina. Pati sa panaginip nito ay nakikita niya si Jameela at palaging kausap.

Dumating ang ilang buwan ay nagkamabutian sina Fahad at Jameela. Palagi na ring hinahanap ni Jameela si Fahad kapag hindi niya ito nakikita sa campus. Hanggang sa naging magkasintahan sila kahit bawal sa Islam. Araw-araw silang nag-uusap sa mga plano nila sa buhay pagkatapos ng hayskul. Hanggang humantong sa sumpaan nilang hindi iiwan ang isa’t-isa kahit anong mangyari kahit langit at lupa man ang kanilang pagitan.

Kalimo, mas mainam pang hingin mo na ang kamay ko kay Abi ko,” seryosong sambit ni Jameela habang nakatingin sa mapupungay na mata ni Fahad.

“Oo kalimo ko, In Sha Allah, mamamanhikan ako sa inyo at hihingin ko ang iyong kamay sa Abi mo,” sagot ni Fahad sabay hagod ng marahan sa maputi at malambot na kamay ni Jameela.

Isang araw, pumunta si Fahad kasama ang kanyang nanay sa bahay nila Jameela upang magsagawa ng pangengedong. Sa kultura ng mga Maguindanaon, ang proseso patungo sa isang kasal ay nagsisimula sa pangengedong. Sa matalinhaga at literal na pagsasalin nito, ang lumang kaugaliang ito ay nangangahulugang “pagbulong,” kung saan ang “kamaman” o ang pamilya ng inaasahang lalaking ikakasal ay nagtatanong kung may makukuha ba ang inaasahang ikakasal sa pamamagitan ng kanyang pamilya o “kababayan.” Ang mga unang pag-uusap ay may kinalaman sa “bantingan” (katayuan ng karangalan) ng prospect bride at “maratabat” (royal lineage) ng kanyang pamilya o wala sa ilang mga kaso. Ayon sa kaugalian, ito ay ang unang pagkakaunawaan sa pagitan ng dalawang pamilya na hahantong sa isang “Salangguni” o tamang pakikipag-ugnayan.

“Assalamu alaykom kagi Abdullah,” kinakabahang bati ng nanay ni Fahad sa tatay ni Jameela na medyo namumula ang mukha sa hiya.

“Alaykumus Salam naman sa iyo,” sagot ni Datu Abdullah na may kaunting pagtataka sa mukha kung bakit sila nandoon.

“Ah, Datu, hindi na po kami magpapaligoy-ligoy pa. Gusto po sana ng anak ko na hingin ang kamay ng anak niyo na si Jameela. Kaya po kami narito upang itanong kung wala po bang ibang nagkakagustong mamanhikan sa anak ninyo at kung magkano po ba ang magiging dote ng anak ninyo?” nauutal na paliwanag ni Ustaja Mariam kay Datu Abdullah.

“Alam mo Ustaja, kahit sino mang lalaking gustong mapangasawa ang aking anak ay hindi ko pipigilan basta lang kung kaya niyang buhayin ang anak ko,” mataas na boses na sabi ni Datu Abdullah.

“Kung gayon po, mga anong halaga po kaya ang inyong hinihinging dote sa anak niyo na si Jameela?” tanong ni Ustaja Mariam na may kaunting pangamba habang nakatingin kay Fahad.

“Kailangan niyong maghanda ng limang daang libong piso, isang ektaryang lupa, at isang magarang sasakyan!” pakutyang sagot ni Datu Abdulllah na makikitang seryoso at mukhang hindi na magbabago ang desisyon.

Natameme si Ustaja Mariam sa laki ng hinihingi ni Datu Abdullah. Napalunok naman si Fahad at biglang namutla ang kanyang makinis na mukha. Pagkatapos ng pangengedong ay umuwi na parang walang pag-asa ang mag-ina at doon sa kanilang bahay nagpatuloy na mag-usap.

“Kung buhay lang sana ang iyong ama ngayon ay baka may makatulong pa sa atin sa paghahanap ng kalahating milyon na iyan anak,” umiiyak na sabi ni Ustaja kay Fahad na sa malayo nakatanaw habang dinadama ang lungkot nang maalala kung paano nasawi ang asawa sa bakbakan sa Mamasapano.

“Oo nga ina ko, maaaring baka sana may mga kamag-anak tayo na pweding tumulong sa atin dito,” nanghihinayang na sagot ni Fahad habang nakatingin sa labas ng bintana nilang yari sa lumang kawayan.

Dahil sa laki ng hinihingi ng tatay ni Jameela na dote o bigay-kaya (Mahr sa Arabic) ay naisip ni Fahad na huminto sa pag-aaral at mag-abroad. Ang mahr ay isang kontrata na pinapasok ng ilang Muslim sa kasal. Sa batas ng Islam, ito ay isang regalo o kontribusyon na ginawa ng lalaki sa kanyang magiging asawa, para sa kanyang eksklusibong ari-arian, bilang tanda ng paggalang sa nobya, at bilang pagkilala sa kanyang kasarinlan. Dahil dito, pinayagan naman siya ng kanyang ina at ng kasintahang si Jameela na kitain ito at makaipon para sa kanilang kinabukasan. Nag-usap naman nang masinsinan ang magkasintahan hinggil sa plano ni Fahad na mangibang bansa.

“Kung ang kapalit na makuha ang kamay mo kalimo ko ay ang mangibang bansa ay gagawin ko. Lahat gagawin ko kahit madurog at mawasak ang puso ko na mapalayo sa’yo,” sambit ni Fahad na unti-unting pumatak ang luha sa mapungay nitong mga mata.

Astagfirrullah kalimo ko! hindi ko kayang makita kang malungkot. Itanan mo na lang ako kalimo ko,” nagmamakaawang sagot ni Jameela na wari’y ibibigay lahat makatuluyan lang ang binata.

Kahit pinipilit siya ni Jameela na itanan siya nito ay hindi ito pumayag sapagkat nais niyang hingin ang kamay nito sa tatay niya nang maayos at naaayon sa Islam. Kalaunan ay pumayag din ang kalimo o mahal niya na si Jameela na mangibang bansa ito para makaipon ng sapat na dote para sa kanya.

Nagtrabaho si Fahad sa Doha, Qatar bilang isang waiter. Kahit wala itong karanasan sa naturang trabaho ay agad itong natanggap dahil sa angking gwapo, tikas, kinis ng kutis at ibang katangian na parang isang koreanong artista na tinitilian ng mga tagahanga nito. Ginawa niyang araw ang gabi upang makalikom ng sapat na salapi para kay Jameela. Hindi na niya inisip ang sarili. Kahit may lagnat ito ay pumapasok pa rin ito sa hotel na kanyang pinagtatrabahuan. Palagi siyang nag-oovertime sa trabaho. Nagsa-sideline din siyang magbenta ng kakanin dahil noong nasa Pilipinas pa ay katulong siya ng kanyang nanay sa pagbebenta ng kakanin at kahit noong nasa elementarya pa ito.

Dahil sa angkin nitong kagwapohan, hindi maiwasan na pati mga lalaking arabo o ibang lahi ay napapalingon kapag nakakasalubong ito. Minsan din ay may kusang nagbibigay sa kanya ng pera, cellphone, at alahas pero hindi niya ito tinatanggap dahil ayaw niya ng mga bagay na hindi niya pinaghihirapan. Kahit abala siya sa trabaho ay hindi pa rin niya nalilimutang magsimba ng limang beses sa isang araw (utos sa Islam) at kahit pagod pa ito galing sa trabaho. Nagtrabaho siya nang mahusay at nag-ipon nang nag-ipon.

Makalipas ang limang taon, natapos niya ang kanyang kontrata sa Qatar at nakaipon na ng mahigit limang daan libong piso. Masaya siya sapagkat makakauwi na siya sa Pilipinas at maibibigay na ang dote na hiningi ng ama ni Jameela. Lumipad siya pauwi ng bansa nang nakangiti at sabik na sabik. Nang dumating siya sa kanilang baranggay ay dumiretso itong pumunta sa bahay nila Jameela. Habang naglalakad ay napansin niyang maraming nakawagayway na mga pandala at pandi na nakabalandra sa labas ng bahay nila Jameela na karaniwang makikita lang tuwing may ginagawang salagguni o kasalan. Ang pandala at pandi ay simbolo ng kulturang Bangsamoro na ang ibig sabihin ay may malapit nang ikasal. Masayang pumasok si Fahad sa loob ng bahay. Nakita niya si Jubair na matalik niyang kaibigan kasama ang ama niya na katatapus lang mag-salangguni o mamanhikan kay Jameela at nakatakdang ikasal.

Kalimo ko!” nagtatakang sigaw ni Fahad habang hinahanap si Jameela na parang pinagsakluban ng langit at lupa ang pakiramdam. Hindi niya alam ang gagawin at parang nababaliw at natataranta.

“Anong ginagawa mo dito?!” galit na tanong ni Datu Abdullah kay Fahad.

“Heto na po ang limang daang piso, Datu!” pagsusumamong sabi ni Fahad sa ama ani Jameela habang inilalagay sa mesa ang pera nakatali pa.

“Dinagdagan ko pa po ng isang daang libong piso,” dagdag pa niya habang tumutulo ang luha nito na parang tubig na umaagos sa gripo.

“Hindi ko kailangan ang pera mo! Nagbigay na ng isang milyon ang pamilya nila Jubair para hingin ang kamay ng anak ko!” pagmamataas na sinabi ni Datu Abdullah.

“Wala kayong isang salita Datu Abdullah!” wika ni Fahad na nagsusumamo habang nakaupo sa sahig na parang batang inagawan ng isang laruan.

“Umalis ka na dito bago pa magdilim ang paningin ko! At huwag kang mag-iskandalo dito. Hindi ka imbitado dito sa bahay ko! Hindi kayo bagay ng anak ko! At higit sa lahat ayaw kong makasal sa anak ko ang isang katulad mo!” galit na sigaw ni Datu Abdullah habang tinituro sa mukha si Fahad.

Umalis si Fahad sa bahay ni Datu Abdullah na humahagulgol sa labis na kalungkutan. Habang si Jameela naman ay nagkulong sa kanyang kwarto ng araw na iyon at buong araw na umiiyak at hindi kumakain. Hindi niya pweding kausapin si Fahad sa pagkakataong iyon dahil binalaan siya ng kanyang ama na papaslangin si Fahad kapag nagkatuluyan sila nito. Ayaw mawala ni Jameela si Fahad kaya nagdesisyon siyang pakasalan si Jubair at tanggapin ang inaalok nilang isang milyong dote.

Kinasal sina Jameela at Jubair sa isang hotel sa siyudad at maraming mayayamang pamilya ang imbitado. Buong araw na umiiyak si Fahad at pinagsusuntok ang haligi ng kanilang bahay na yari sa isang marupok na uri ng kahoy. Kahit nagdurugo na ang kanang kamay nito ay hindi pa rin niya tinigilang suntukin ang haligi ng bahay nila. Inawat lang siya ng kanyang ina at niyakap.

“Tama na kalimo ko. Tama na,” umiiyak na pakiusap ng ina niya na labis na nasasaktan sa dinadanas ng anak. Nilapitan niya ito.

“Ginawa ko ang lahat ina ko. Tiniis ko ang lahat. Wala ng natira sa akin ina. Siya lang ang lagi kong iniisip. Ikamamatay ko kapag mawala siya ina ko,” patuloy na hagulgol ni Fahad habang yakap ang ina nang mahigpit.

“Makakakita ka rin ng mas magmamahal sa iyo ng totoo kalimo ko,” pagtahan sa kanya ng ina niya habang hinahaplos ang ulo nito.

Mula noon lagi na lang nakatulala si Fahad at hindi masyadong kumakain. Nawalan na siya ng gana sa buhay. Hindi na rin nakikita ang mga biloy nito sa magkabilang pisngi ng kanyang mukha na dati rati ay kusang lumilitaw. Hindi na rin siya lumalabas ng bahay. Isang araw, narinig na lang niya na nanganak na si Jameela at pinangalanan itong Fajam na hango sa bansag sa kanila noong nasa hayskol pa sila. Lalong nalungkot si Fahad ng makita niya sa Facebook ang mga larawan nila Jameela, Jubair at ang anak nito sa isang aqiqa o isang ritwal na ginagawa ng mga Muslim sa bagong silang na sanggol at pagpapangalan dito.

“Mamahalin pa rin kita habambuhay kalimo ko,” sabi ni Fahad sa sarili habang pinagmamasdan ang mga larawan ni Jameela sa social media.

“Ikaw lang ang una at huli kong mamahalin,” dagdag pa nito habang unti-unting pumapatak ang luha niya.

Mula noon, nagpakalayo-layo na lang si Fahad para hindi niya makita ang pamilya nila Jameela at muling maalala ang mga masasakit na naranasan nito sa lugar na iyon. Hindi na rin siya nagpi-facebook. Sa kabilang dako naman ay masayang-masaya na si Jameela sa kanyang pamilya at unti-unti na niyang natutunang mahalin si Jubair hanggang sa mabuntis siya ulit nito at manganak. Tumandang binata naman si Fahad at hindi na umibig pang muli. Dinamdam niya lahat ng sakit na naranasan niya. Hanggang isang araw, nabalitaan na lang ni Jameela na nagkasakit at namatay na si Fahad dahil sa sakit at depresyon. Inilibing siya agad na naayon sa isang kultura ng Muslim na kung saan sa loob ng dalawampu’t apat na oras ay dapat nakalibing na.

Sa hindi inaasahang pagkakataon ay may biglang dumating na isang package para kay Jameela. Isa itong kahon ng sapatos na may katamtamang laki. Dahan-dahan niya itong binuksan. Nagtataka siya dahil walang pangalang nakalagay dito kung sino ang nagpadala nito. Nang tuluyang mabuksan niya ang kahon, nakita niya ang isang puting sulat na nakalagay sa isang sobre at limang daang libong piso na buo pang nakatali. Binuksan niya ang sulat at biglang tumulo ang kanyang mga luha.

“Para sa iyo kalimo ko. Wala akong sama ng loob sa iyo. Hindi mo kasalanan ang lahat. Kasalanan ko kung bakit isinilang akong mahirap at hindi kita nagawang ipaglaban. Kung sana ay nakaipon ako ng mas maaga ay sana tayo na ang nagkatuluyan. Ingatan mo si Fajam ah. Sa kanya ‘yang pera na iyan. Para sa kanyang pag-aaral. Kahit hindi ko man siya tunay na anak ay alam kong sa pangalan pa lang niya ay hindi mo pa rin maikakaila na mahal mo pa rin ako pero hindi na tayo pwedi sapagkat haram sa Islam na makiapid. Hayaan mong mahalin kita kahit may asawa ka na. Hayaan mong mahalin ko ang anak mo kahit hindi ko siya tunay na anak. At hayaan mo ng mahalin kita habambuhay at kahit sa kabilang buhay. Kung ipapanganak man akong muli, ikaw at ikaw pa rin ang aking mamahalin. Walang isang minuto na hindi kita iniisip. Mahal na mahal kita kalimo ko.” Hindi pa niya natatapos basahin ang sulat ay tumulo ang mga luha ni Jameela at halos mabura na ang mga tinta ng sulat sa luha nito. Umiiyak si Jameela habang yakap-yakap nang mahigpit ang sulat. Nang ‘di anu-ano’y biglang nagdilim ang kanyang paningin at hinimatay.

 

Mercy

Ashia A. Abdulatiph

“The dog is flying.” Our GEC104 professor was in the middle of talking about the difference between humanities and science. I looked outside and drowned out her droning voice. The cloud looked like it was about to let down a strong rainfall.

The ant wandering on my desk died. I killed it.

Ping.

A text came through. The sharp sound disturbed the still and dull atmosphere. Reverberating throughout the classroom and echoing inside my head. My nerves flared out, my anxiety soared, the sound of death signaling another funeral.  I took a deep breath and reached towards my phone, turning it on.

Come home. The message said.

Come die. I thought. I want to puke. Puke, a word commonly mis-reported to be invented by Shakespeare. Deafening. Assassination. Bedazzling. Bedazzling light. Bedazzling beauty. Bedazzling life.

The shuffling of feet signaled the end of the class, pulling me out of my reverie. Having calmed down a little, I quickly arranged my things and left the room with my classmates. Others will be going to their next class, others will eat in some restaurant in comcent., and I will be walking home. Towards death.

Death. A funeral. How fast a life passes on. All used up. How easy it is to take a life. Life and Death. How many people die each day? Around 150,000 people. There is no cure to this, just enjoy the interval. The big secret. The miracle.  We will all die one day, so let go and live. Around 300,000 babies are born every day. That’s twice more….

Without realizing it, I have reached home with my feet guiding me through the familiar path. The house loomed over me, offering no solace from these scattered thoughts. I stood at the front of the door for a while. I watched as a yellow butterfly took flight and fly away. I felt the start of the rainfall as a rain drop fell on my skin. I reached for the doorknob, took a deep breath then opened the door.

“Assalamuaikom.” I said as I entered the house. It was dark inside, no light was turned on. Nothing was replaced or even moved here and yet everything felt so different. The air, it’s the air. A great absence can be felt, like a black hole sucking the light from its surrounding. My father had died. Two month ago, a lifetime ago.

A man was in the living room. There was no one in the house except for him. My sister is still in school and my mother is drowning herself with work. He was sitting in the dark, wearing nothing but black. The only light source coming from the slightly opened window casts shadows around him, making him look grim. A grim reaper out on a mission.

“Bapa Ito.”

“Get ready. We should finish this as fast as possible. It’s better that way.”

“Okay.” I started to walk away when he called out my name.

“Rahim.”

I stopped and looked back. He was walking towards me. In the dim living room, I watched his frail and weak frame, a stark contrast against his usual jovial and jolly energy. He stood before me, placing my trembling hand in between his hands.

On the third day of my father’s funeral, Bapa Ito pulled me away. He grasped my shoulder. His voice full of venom. His eyes full of anger. “Rahim, do you understand why your father is gone? They killed him, those bastards.”

That was the first time I felt scared of Bapa Ito.  With his bloodshot eyes, his booming voice, and the force of his grip on my shoulder, he was like a mad man.

“An ambush. They shot at him, three men. While he was on his way home, they shot at him, at his head. He laid there on the pavement.”

Noticing that I was beginning to feel scared, he calmed down. He caressed my cheeks then whispered, “Avenge your father. For your mother, for your family, for your honor, for the clan. For everyone that he and you love. Kill them. That is your job as his son. For your maratabat.”

“It’ll all be fine.” Bapa Ito said, bringing me back to the present.

“I am scared, bapa.”

“Stop thinking for now. Empty you’re head. Promise me that.”

I nodded. He released my hand then urged me to move along.

I went up to my room, then closed the door behind me. I am scared but I know it is something I must do. Something I am expected to do.

I looked at the clothes I have prepared earlier. Much like the clothes bapa Ito is wearing, it was all in black. I quickly changed and then went to my cabinet. I opened the drawer to get the gun. .45 caliber. The metal cold to the touch. I safely put it inside my waistband then walked downstairs, going back to the living room.

Bapa Ito noticed me and said, “Oh, you’re ready. I’ll start the motorcycle.”

It had started to rain heavily when we got out of the house. The sound of the water dropping on the metal roofs and the sound of thunder from lightning made things a little hard to hear. The roar of the motorcycle’s engine added to the cacophony of sounds.

Bapa Ito handed me a helmet. “Here. Put this over your head. It will cover your face.”

I put the helmet on then sat at the back. Bapa Ito also wore a helmet. As soon as we have settled, we were on the way. Towards the target.

“That’s him in the orange jacket. I’ll stop the motor when we are near him then you shoot. Understand?”

I nodded, even though he can’t see me.

I took out the gun from my waistband. I held it in my right hand – the pointy finger on the trigger, my thumb on one side of the handle while my pinky, middle, and ring finger on the other. I put my other hand below the barrel to provide support.

The motor stopped.

I raised my arms.

Then aimed.

At the guy in the orange jacket. At his head.

Then I pulled the trigger. Felt the gun’s mechanism release a bullet hunting its target.

Bang! Thud!

The sounds vibrated in my ear. Traveling throughout my whole body. Finding its way into my head. Imprinting itself into my memory.

And we were speeding along. The roar of the engine and the downfall of rain drowning out the screams. I barely noticed these sounds. Barely felt the coldness and my clothes sticking to my body. In my head, there was only the cold metal in my right hand, my heart thudding against my chest, and that sound inside my head repeating again and again.

Bang! Thud !Bang! Thud! Bang! Thud! Bang! Thud !Bang! Thud! Bang! Thud! Bang! Thud !Bang! Thud! Bang!

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!

Ping.

When I became aware of my surrounding, I find myself inside my room.

It’s that sound again. I feel fear slowly creeping in. Did he also have a son? Did he even have a wife? He looked young. Will I also be killed? Will I be killed by his son? His father? His cousin? When I die, who will kill for me? Bapa Ito? Will it continue? This cycle of death?

I buried myself into my bed. I started crying and gasping as tears forcefully cascades down my face. In my blurry vision, I saw a moth resting on the corner of the room.

The target. I do not even know his name. I did not want to know who he is.

According to a statistic, one hundred fifty thousand people die every day. Today, one of them died by my hand.

 

Reflections on the 2023 Gaza-Israel Conflict as a Filipino

Earl Carlo Mandi Guevarra

As I write this, I look out the window in sadness, feeling helpless at the terrible reality that tens of thousands of people are being systematically slaughtered in a place that’s just 41 kilometers long and 10 kilometers wide at its widest point. You can’t just make this up. Imagine cutting half of Metro Manila, placing it in an alternate dimension, and bombing it with all the kinds of ordnance you can think of, 24/7 nonstop – that’s what’s happening in the Gaza Strip right now.

On social media, it’s ironic that the majority of Filipinos support Israel’s actions, even when many around the world say otherwise. There are a couple of probable reasons why they might do so; they help with the defense requirements of the country, they equate it with the Holy Land, and the country is one of the rare people who would give Filipinos travel privileges (even in their security checks, Philippines is considered as one of those countries that will come right after their own citizens).

Ironically, a nation that is supposed to practice “makadiyos” (Godliness and excellence in service in the name of the Creator) and “makatao” (humanity and human excellence) as our core values are actively participating in dehumanizing people whose only fault was to be born on the wrong side of the planet.

I actually had an internal debate on whether I should reflect on the current conflict on paper or not. On one hand, I asked myself if there’s anything that has been written about the topic at hand that hasn’t already been written. On the other hand, it is pretty clear that many Filipinos, especially those outside of Mindanao, immediately demonize all Palestinians as terrorists – despite being completely innocent as far as the strictures of international law, war, and common human laws are concerned.

Sounds familiar? This was exactly the same situation that many people from this region had to face in the recent past. While there’s undeniably an actual and sustainable shot at lasting peace with the BARMM project (and yes, it’s way more peaceful now than before), it wasn’t that long ago when being from Mindanao (and being a Muslim) would raise eyebrows if you were walking in the streets of Manila – more so if you came from places like Maguindanao, Sulu, and the like.

I’ve even heard from one of my friends who lived in San Juan that there are rumors that other buyers wouldn’t buy a condominium unit if they found out that Muslims were living on the same floor. This isn’t the long-time-ago past of the early 2000s; I’m talking about something that happened just two or three years ago. This just shows that while the negative point of view towards Muslims may have been stifled over the past few years, it is still safe to say that many Filipinos still consider being a Muslim as a byword for being dangerous.

Now, on to the matter at hand: There are three things that we Filipinos should know about Gaza to understand the dynamics of the current and most destructive iteration of the conflict.

First, it’s ruled by a political entity called Hamas – yes, even its entry on the notorious Wikipedia lists it first as a political organization – who actually was elected democratically back in 2006 during the last Palestinian elections with 44.5% of the popular vote, and bagged 74 out of 132 seats. I can only think of a few big names here in the Philippine political landscape who have won by this margin fairly and squarely, and they had also to go up against a repressive and organized propaganda machine with virtually unlimited funding. With that being said, they also happen to be designated as a terrorist group by the United States and the European Union; but at the same time, they’re the de facto government of Gaza that provides for its 2.2 million people living within a completely blockaded area of 365 square kilometers. Make that of what you will.

Second, Palestine, is on paper, a state, though it’s divided into two entities: Fatah, who nominally sits as the Palestinian Authority, controls the West Bank, while Hamas controls Gaza. A state is supposed to have people, territory, government, and recognition by other states (even the Philippines officially recognizes Palestinian statehood) – this is what we’ve all learned in World History during high school. There’s a fifth element that’s generally implied – that’s the right to self-defense.

Given that Palestine is a state that’s recognized by 138 countries around the world and is being attacked by multiple means, doesn’t it have the right to defend its people, territory, and government through any means possible? This is what Palestinians have tried to do for many years against illegal settlers (no less than the UN condemned them), oppressive security forces (for those of you who don’t know, they’re going up against a full-scale surveillance apparatus that rivals the one placed in Xinjiang in China), and external parties who simply don’t want them to be a viable state for varying reasons.

Finally, in any conflict, there’s the concept of proportionality. To put it in terms that someone on the street would understand: You can only use force that is necessary to defend yourself and you can’t systematically target others who are not a part of your fight. One can argue that the invaders acted in “self-defense” (objectively, Hamas struck first), but that went out the window shortly after they decided to actively target medical facilities, schools, residential buildings, places of worship (including an Orthodox church), power facilities, you name it. Then, there is the fact that journalists were taunted and bombed (Wael Dahdouh, the Gaza bureau chief for Al Jazeera Arabic, had to go live 15 minutes after he had to bury his family – his wife, son, daughter, and grandson – that’s three generations killed in one strike!) Worst of all, nearly half of the deaths in Gaza are children; due to the conflict, an entire generation’s right to basic education and knowledge is denied and wiped out. You can’t think of a greater injustice than this.

Even if we throw all societal, rules-based, religious, and values-based considerations out of the window, anyone with basic human dignity should show at least some sympathy for those thousands who are forever unalive. It’s not just the people who are being erased from existence; traditions, cultures, and tales are being methodically and permanently devastated forever – that’s the extent of the horror that’s happening today in Palestine.

We may be apathetic and dismissive now, saying that it’s halfway around the world. However, this might be the reality that we Filipinos will be facing in a few years unless by some miracle we are spared from it. We can all rest assured that everyone and their dog is currently taking notes on this conflict, gauging how much they could get away with in terms of destroying human lives and dignity as well as the techniques and procedures that they could apply to maximize said destruction.

Going back, I realized I’d run out of tears. Every day, there’s a new catastrophe; every hour, there’s a novel calamity…and every hour, the population of an entire state is being decimated while many all over the world just watch on impassively as if it was nothing but a tragic movie.

There’s this poem entitled “Oh Rascal Children of Gaza” by Palestinian writer Khaled Juma, written in 2014, that encapsulates my feelings pretty well:

Oh rascal children of Gaza.
You who constantly disturbed me
with your screams under my window.
You who filled every morning
with rush and chaos.
You who broke my vase
and stole the lonely flower on my balcony.
Come back,
and scream as you want
and break all the vases.
Steal all the flowers.
Come back…
Just come back.

The bitter truth is that they’re not coming back to this world; they’ve been denied their right to exist and the right to try to shape the world around them for a better, brighter future. Yet, I believe that they’ll be reborn in another world, in a place where they’ll be happy, gilded, and dignified.

I can’t comprehend the fact that I’m living in an age where it’s possible to see entire generations dead in the blink of an eye. Still, I pray that the people of Palestine may resist and outlast this grim period – and that they may enjoy the chance to attain lasting and sustainable peace and progress, just like what’s currently built up in the Bangsamoro. I also hope to see them one day becoming free from the river to the sea and spreading into the ocean and leaving their stamp on all the coasts of the world.

Writing Process

Nurmina Abdul

I struggled with holding a pencil in preschool. While my classmates raced out of our makeshift classroom, I was left behind, clutching my pencil as if my life depended on it when it should be the pencil depending on me to guide it across the paper. My concerned and, at the same time, stressed-out teacher would let me do “Close-Open Hands” Exercises to help work my right hand’s control muscles and allow me to grasp a pencil without assistance. At home, my mother would teach me how to make du’a by letting me imitate how she lifted her hands, asking for the Almighty’s blessings. I remember these not because my handwriting had turned appealing or I became the best in making du’as but because my palms would seize my memories and ideas, ultimately processing them through my attempts at writing.

As a kid, I quietly enjoyed reading in corners. But growing up, soaked in an irretrievable rush to build a dream, I considered writing more seriously. The people around me, however, don’t seem to take me seriously each time I tell them I’m taking up creative writing. What more if they knew I couldn’t hold a pencil properly as a kid? Some of my relatives and acquaintances would confuse my course with Education major in English: They see the two disciplines as identical. If they were birds, they’re of the same feathers. Both struggle to find a nest to rest in. Though teaching is noble, and I might dive into it, I don’t think it’s fair to continually mistake something for something else.

In seventh grade, I learned a narrative could get amplified twice as others, especially when the other is perceived lightly. I remember first hearing the outcome of SAF 44’s OPLAN exodus in Mamasapano, Maguindanao, through my computer teacher, who prayed for the eternal repose of the slain forces and for protection against “bandits” who, according to him, wanted to take over the land of promise. In some way, he tried choosing his words carefully. Later, I’ll discover that at least seven civilians were dead, including a five-year-old and a farmer. While I’m far from competing about whose pain is more painful, maybe it’s worth saying that no one has a monopoly on suffering. I refuse to be convinced that someone wakes up waiting to be killed in their own home. Perhaps my classmates and teacher have forgotten the scenario because I would wish the same. Yet, the daunting task of writing, I have to feel, I have to remember, I have to retell.

A quick Google search of words synonymous with “process” would include procedure, operation, action, activity, undertaking, proceeding, development, course, measure, and means, to name some. I thought my writing “process” included opening and closing my hands like what I did in preschool. The more I practice, the better I’ll be. The tighter I hold onto narratives, the better. But I realize that as I learned to hold pencils and keep memoirs, I struggled to let go, too. There are times that I refuse to write because of such reasons.

My mother told me I should put my trust in God, especially regarding things outside my control. Indeed, it’s convenient to let the higher being take care of those beyond our capabilities. Yet, I’m not immune to the pressure. I admit to seeing writing as a chance to navigate through my Maguindanaon identity. Growing up, I struggled a lot with representation. I wondered why Bangsamoro history is obliterated in most history books while our clothing, food, language, and customs are appropriated. I wonder why Muslims get asked to explain Bin Laden’s actions when I don’t recall any credits for Rumi’s brilliance. I find it extra challenging to process the necessity to put frequent efforts into proving I’m not a threat to anyone by merely existing or, for that matter, writing. Probably, my mother was right to say I must relinquish what I can’t control.

Writing a short story involving Maguindanaon characters unveiled my internalized prejudice against my fellows. “Why did you kill off the character?” My lecturer asked in an afternoon Fiction I Workshop. The class was curious about the ending of my draft. They couldn’t wrap their heads around the death of the male protagonist turned combatant. It didn’t help that he was murdered by his fiancee, who didn’t earn the readers’ trust that she got in her the ability to kill. Looking back, I assumed that erasing my character was an easy shortcut to tie up the story. Perhaps a part of me didn’t yet have the full courage to defend my choice to write about arranged marriages and armed struggle. I failed to distinguish constructive self-criticism from pure contempt in writing about my people. I’m quite sure developing a sense of inferiority doesn’t happen overnight. I suppose I’m not alone in my experiences either. However, I consider it a personal battle that I must overcome. Regardless, on that afternoon, I gave everyone equally bad and lazy answers via Google Meet.

Mostly now, I imagine Moro writers who came before me had also searched for their specific voices and inspirations and had to learn and unlearn many things in their writing process and beyond throughout their journey. I find solace in thinking of fellow beginning Moro writers out there likewise trying. What’s left for us, I guess, is the boldness to keep on writing. I know I learned to hold a pencil to write stories. I believe I have an axon of assertions — even when pulled away, impulses.

Contributors (Issue 5)

Ashia A. Abdulatiph is an undergraduate student currently enrolled in the BA English Language Studies program at Mindanao State Univery-Main Campus, Marawi City. She is a Meranaw who grew up in what is now known as the Ground Zero of Marawi City. Her interests lie in the exploration of the Meranaw culture and its propagation. She intends to narrate and convey the lives of the Meranaw people whose voice needs to be represented in the mainstream media.

Nurmina Abdul is a Bachelor of Arts in English (Creative Writing) student at the University of the Philippines Mindanao. She hails from Sultan Kudarat, but currently resides in Davao.

As Sulus, Nelson Dino is engaged in creative writing like poetry, short stories, narratives, novels, and song lyrics in different languages. He serves as a professor of history and language at MSU-TCTO. His other writing comes from his iconological research on the cultural history, expressions, motifs, and meanings of the Sulus carving arts. His current research is about the archetypes of character in Kissa as a source of an individual’s sense of self, known to Sulus as Akkal Buddi.

Earl Carlo Guevarra is a consultant for an interfaith dialogue organization in Manila. Originally hailing from a mixed-faith family in Zamboanga, he has written for both local and international publications. He loves to travel to different places and consume huge amounts of fruit tea!

Morsid A. Kadir is a mujahid photojournalist currently employed in the Bangsamoro Information Office-Bangsamoro Autonomous Region in Muslim Mindanao. A native of Shariff Aguak in Maguindanao del Sur, he was born on June 16, 1993. He enjoys writing in a poetic style. His poetry is inspired by his experiences and observations of the realities of life, particularly in the life of a mujahid, aiming to inspire youngsters so that they won’t forget and will appreciate what the Bangsamoro has achieved today.

Norhan B. Kudarat is an English teacher at the JH Cerilles State College. He holds a Master of Arts in Education, specializing in English, and is pursuing a Ph.D. in Language Studies at Mindanao State University in Marawi City. In 2023, he received the Best Folk Story Writer award for his work, “Dipatuan and Bai Laga,” featured in the anthology of Kalimantan and Mindanao Folk Stories at Universitas Tanjungpura, Indonesia. Norhan’s career exemplifies dedication to education and a talent for storytelling that celebrates cultural heritage.

Aisha L. Kunting graduated senior high school at Philippine International School in Riyadh, where she was the assistant editor in chief for the Campus Voice paper. She worked for DQ Living Magazine Riyadh as a Content Contributor, creating reels and posts for DQ’s social media accounts. Currently, she is pursuing a degree in Business Administration at Mapua Malayan Digital College. Her hobbies include creative writing such as poems and short stories, and food photography for her Instagram blog, Averenza.

Jannah Reeham M. Macaumbos is an undergraduate student at Mindanao State University – Main Campus and is currently taking up the degree of Bachelor of Arts in English Language Studies. Jannah is a huge advocate of language preservation. She believes that there is an urgent need in preserving indigenous languages since it plays a crucial role in protecting the culture and identity of its speakers. Aside from her interest in language, she is also known for her advocacy about the importance of Mental Health and Human Rights.

Shariful Hashim S. Mansul, or Perry, is a freelance writer-researcher born in Jolo, Sulu. Loosely settling in the genre of creative nonfiction, his writings oftentimes explore the slippery figuration of realities in the Sulu Archipelago and aims to escalate its discoursive abstraction. He does this by mixing up memory, research, correspondences, armchair philosophy, and a pack of cigarettes. No coffee. He also likes trying out new things and Pringles.

Amirol Awal Mohammad is an active student leader, student athlete, and a passionate campus journalist. He is currently a fourth-year student, taking Bachelor of Science in Development Communication in Mindanao State University-Main Campus, Marawi City. He is the president of the Union of Communication Artists, under the Department of Communication and Media Studies, College of Social Sciences and Humanities, MSU-Main Campus. He is a new member of SOX Writers Collective who also dabbles in freelance hosting and photography.

Si Alican M. Pandapatan ay kasalukuyang fakulti ng Departamento ng Filipino at Iba Pang Wika, Kolehiyo ng Agham Panlipunan at Pangkatauhan ng Mindanao State University-Main Campus. Siya ay nagtuturo ng wika, pagsasaling pampanitikan, at banyagang wika. Nakapagturo na rin siya ng diskurso sa panitikan at malikhaing pagsulat. Ang isa sa kanyang salin na may pamagat na “Elehiya para kay Sakhr” ay nalathala sa Kawing Journal. Binasa niya rin ang tula ni Abadilla na “Ako ang Daigdig” sa isang Poetry Reading Night na bahagi ng isang kumperensiya sa Universiti Pendidikan Sultan Idris, Malaysia. Noong 2017, siya ay naging fellow ng 24th Iligan National Writers Workshop.